Pushing the Envelope
by Simon920
Summary: Robin Dick Grayson agrees to appear in a gymnsatics exhibition.


Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

Note; while I enjoy gymnastics and did some research for this story, understand that I'm no expert, so please bear with me.

**Pushing the Envelope**

"It just doesn't feel right."

"Let me take a look. Go through it once and I'll see if anything's obvious."

"Okay." Robin walked over to his starting position in the corner of the floor exercise mat, started his run for the first tumbling pass and launched himself into a series of flips and turns ending with a double twisting layout to a stick—then kept going with a punch front marking the start of part two of the double pass that concluded with a perfect fingertip handstand instead of on his feet. Forty-five seconds after he finished that long, first pass, he was standing in the far corner, arms up, feet together, legs straight in perfect form and was not happy. The couch he was working with, a man considered one of the top gymnastics coaches in the world, looked pleased enough.

"That looked fine; nice variety, good height, originality, good speed and form—what's the problem?"

He was shaking his head as he walked back to the coach. "It's boring."

"That would probably win just about any meet you threw it in, from the National's to the World's to the Olympics. Trust me, it's not boring."

Robin wasn't buying it. "Jim, it's boring because men's floor is boring."

Not the answer the man expected. "…Excuse me? Boring how?"

"It's stiff, all the movements are stiff and there's no music, no flow. It's _boring_." Of course Robin was used to performing to cheering crowds with a calliope and live musicians playing accompaniment. "It's maybe not as boring as pommel, but it's still boring."

The coach was clearly annoyed by his attitude but decided not to make an issue of it—yet. "Okay, fine, so what do you suggest? You know that if you try to add music or dance elements or any of that you're ass'll be grass as far as the judges are concerned."

"Yeah, I know." He sat down on one of the chairs along the side of the mat. "Maybe we could push the envelope a little." He wiped his hands off on a towel from his bag. "What if I threw something at an exhibition instead of an actual meet? That might work."

"You know you usually need to be invited to an exhibition based on previous performances. You don't have any previous performances, at least not officially." Sure, Robin would sometimes show up as a 'guest artist' or something, but he'd never actually competed in a meet as far as anyone knew.

Robin gave him a sly smile. "C'mon Jimmy, you really think that's going to be a problem?" Robin wasn't arrogant but neither was he an idiot; he knew he was a draw. If he agreed to perform at an exhibition ticket sales would go up, there'd be more press coverage and the sponsors would love it. The boy had been dealing with publicity and attendance numbers since he could walk; it was in his blood.

Robin willing to throw some routines at some exhibition, guaranteeing through-the-roof ticket sales and more publicity than you could buy? Oh yeah, no problem; his first class plane tickets would be in the mail five minutes after the kid got off the phone with the powers that be over at the USGF and they both knew it. "Are you okay performing in front of crowds, though? I know you can hit the moves, but it's a lot different with five or six thousand people staring at you and cameras in your face—you okay with that or you gonna freeze on me if I set this up?"

"I'm okay with it." No ego, no attitude, just a matter of fact answer. The kid had performed in front of people before and probably not just in a back alley against a purse-snatcher. Of course, that was as Robin—God knew if he'd ever thrown any routines as whatever his real name was.

"You've performed in public before—I mean other than the glimpses we get on the news sometimes?" It was obvious and of course he had, the coach was just wondering when and where. His answer was a half smile that could have been lifted directly from the Mona Lisa and was clearly all the answer he was going to get from the kid. Fine. No big deal. If the kid did what he said he was going to—pushing the gymnastics envelope surrounded by some of the best in the world and in front of a live audience of people who would know what they were looking at it, would be noticed. If the thing were broadcast on ESPN or ABC or whatever, well, someone would probably be able to put two and two together because there weren't all that many people in the world who were capable of this stuff. When you add that he was an exceptionally good looking kid with the required killer athletic build into the mix and enough charisma to package and sell on e-bay …yes, someone may be able to put a real name to him.

But Robin had to have realized that. If he were worried he wouldn't do this, right? Maybe he should ask, though. "You do understand that a lot of people will be seeing this, right?

Someone may figure out who you really are. You're okay with this?"

That small almost smile again. "It's okay, Jim, don't worry about it." He stood up, taking his grips out of his bag. "Let's see what we can do with the high bar, okay?"

The only people who might have even a small clue were his old friends from Haley's and since the show was touring Europe, the odds were pretty much in his favor on this one. He could do what he wanted. He might have some explanations to make to Bruce, but what the hell. It wouldn't be the first time. Besides, he really did think floor exercise was boring.

Two months later he was barefoot, wearing a pair of gym shorts, an old singlet with GCPD on the front and his mask, sitting on a folding chair in the main arena of Madison Square Garden in New York.

"Robin!—I'd heard a rumor you'd be here; who did you pay to let you in?"

"Your mother, but she gave me a discount after last night." A towel hit him in the face.

The accent and voice were unmistakable as the Russian stopped in front of Rob's chair, putting his hand on his shoulder and squeezing slightly. They'd been friendly acquaintances for a few years, seeing one another at various exhibitions and training camps here and there. Okay, Robin didn't compete, but he was always welcomed to train with the top teams in the world. He'd earned his rep as far as all of them were concerned and he'd been invited to wear the team shirt of at least four countries besides the US; nothing official, mind you, but he would be welcomed anywhere he wanted to go. So far he'd politely declined, though he had a good collection of foreign training outfits he wore working out. They were in Madison Square Garden, New York City, at the first practice for the McDonald's Invitational Gymnastics Exhibition. Robin was being as billed as a 'special guest'. The full day of friendly competition and exhibitions was sold out for the first time in years; the quotient of squealing teeny-boppers was expected to be higher than usual.

"Good to see you, too, Sergei. I just got here a few minutes ago; who else is around so far?"

"Jim, Pieter, Antonio, Billy, Franz, Svetlana, Amy, Helga; you know, the usual."

"…You want to get everyone together for dinner later?" Rob didn't want to butt in if the others already had plans or something but it was almost a tradition.

"We can eat Italian? I love Italian. Or maybe Chinese?"

"Sure, whatever you want." Robin smiled—Sergei was always on some special diet or other and desperate for real food.

Sergei gave him a conspiratal look and lowered his voice. "You know, Svetlana was hoping you'd be here." She was the current all around women's champion and Sergei's baby sister. She'd also had a crush on Robin since they'd all met at a junior exhibition a few years ago over in Hungary. "You'll be nice to her, yes?"

"I'm always nice to her, you know that." But it wasn't going any further than that, it just wasn't. She was a nice girl and all, but it wasn't going to happen and they both knew it. "You want me to walk her back to your hotel after we eat?"

"...She would like that and you put one hand on her, you never hang from a high bar again." God, he was such a big brother. "Don't tell her I said it was all right?"

Robin smiled; not a problem. "C'mon, let's warm up." They found an empty spot on the floor, starting with stretches and working their way up to a few basic tumbling passes as a few of the others joined in, each intent on their own workouts. There wasn't a lot of conversation as they all concentrated and finally separated to the different pieces of equipment to work out specific kinks. Reporters and a couple of sports photographers wandered around hoping for interviews or comments. Robin managed to avoid most of them and gave vague answers to the ones who cornered him, claiming he was just there to see his friends and have some fun. No big deal and if it helped raise some money for Ronald McDonald House, all the better.

He played it cool for the workout, didn't throw anything none of the others couldn't do and didn't draw any more attention to himself than he had to. He even kept a lid on the innate charisma he admitted to himself he knew he could use to wipe everyone else in the gym off the floor with. You either knew how to connect to an audience or you didn't and when he was on the floor, even if he was just standing there waiting his turn, he knew no one in the stands was looking anywhere other than at him. It had been like that his whole life and he was used to it at this point—it was simply part of him and he accepted it like he did his hair color or the fact that he had blue eyes. Sure, some of it could be taught, but the real thing? You had to have that in your DNA and Robin knew he had it. His father had it; his mother didn't but she was pretty enough to get by without. It was just the way it was. He was born with it and came by it honestly.

As he was sitting by the sidelines a few hours later, practice over and taking off his grips, one of the American men sat next to him. Steve was a nice enough guy, but though polite to one another, they weren't really friends. "So, are the rumors true?"

Rob looked up at him without interest. "Rumors?" Which rumors this time? That he was the Bat's boy toy again? That he was only there because some official was paid off? That he was about to defect to the Russians?

"That you have some major killer moves you're gonna bust in exhibition to force the ruling body to allow new stuff."

"Oh. _Those_ rumors." Of course it was true, you moron, why else would he be there? He could have dinner with his friends without the hoopla and with a lot less work. "You saw me go through routines today; nothing special." Right, like he was going to out the new stuff here and now. Rob was enough of a showman to know better than to give it away. Maybe he could have slipped in a trick today when no one was paying much attention to psych out the others by making them ask one another if they'd all seen that, but to give it away? Not likely.

"Yeah?"

Rob just shrugged. "You saw what I was doing; a few stalter's, a few giant swings, a few whipbacks; same old." He gave an innocent smile. "Besides, you know me—I'm not really a gymnast, just an acrobat; the fine points never really mattered to me." The hell the fine points didn't matter—and pigs fly, too. "I just like to move and hang out with my friends—throwing some routines is the price of admission, right?"

"Nothing fancy?"

Robin gave his best disingenuous smile. "C'mon… I'm not a fancy kind of guy." Steve seemed relieved, nodded and moved off. A nice guy; not the sharpest blade in the drawer.

An hour later the group of a dozen or so friends were at a good local Italian place tourists didn't know about and the girls were worried about breaking their training diets the night before a major televised exhibition. The rest were wondering if they could get away with ordering wine without being carded. The talk was friendly and relaxed; they'd all been doing this for most of their lives, were confidant that they were the best in the world at what they did and that tomorrow would go well for them all. It wasn't competition, just a show and that meant they could all kick back a little. Okay, sure, they all wanted to do well and maybe throw some fear into the competition, send a message to any judges who might be watching, but all in all? This was a working vacation.

Svetlana was on one side of Robin, Sergei on the other. She had her thigh pressed against his and kept excusing herself but what with the table being so crowded and all…her brother knew exactly what she was doing and was hoping Rob kept his word and behaved. If anything happened their parents would kill them when they got back to Minsk; 'Lana was supposed to win the next Olympics and much as their parents liked Robin, they didn't want to hear—yet again—from their daughter how incredible he was. There would be plenty of time for her to think about that sort of thing after she had the medal around her neck. Thank goodness that Sergei had the sense not to distract himself with girls when he was in training and he never went near any of the girls on the competition circuit—not that the men and the women spent all that much time together. They trained in different cities; their events were scheduled for different days.

Most of the time he kept to the training, but sometimes…there were always ways and the maids in the hotels and the fangirls were usually willing if he smiled at them.

Luckily, their parents had no idea how their children really spent some of their time. But Robin would behave, they were friends and 'Lana was still too young, much as she might think he was everything she'd ever dreamed of.

The dinner was loud and friendly, they all ate more then they probably should have the night before but they had twelve hours to digest and rest before they were due in the locker rooms at the Garden. Robin offered to pick up the check, a suggestion gladly accepted and the evening wound down. A few were left standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, chatting as one by one and two by two the athletes moved off to wherever they were staying. Sergei caught his eye and Rob picked up the cue.

"Lana, would you mind if I walked you back?"

She smiled, blushed and smiled. "But you need to get to where you're staying, too…"

"It's all right, it's not far and I'm using a friend's apartment for a couple of days. Don't worry about me. C'mon. Serge?"

Sergei shook his head, he had his arm around the waist of one of the German coaches and they seemed like they had some plans of their own. "Lana? I'll check on you when I get back, yes?" She nodded in annoyance. Brothers. They should all fall through the ground and die and now there was no way she could get Robin to show her his friend's place.

The group spilt up to their various interests, Robin and Svetlana heading uptown on Broadway, the sidewalk still crowded with tourists and gawkers staring up at the tall buildings and the garish lights. By about forty-third street, Robin had taken her hand to help her stay with him in the crush of the theaters letting out and Lana was thinking that the only thing to make the night more perfect would be if he came up to her room when they got to the hotel. In all truth, at fifteen and protected, the chances of anything happening were slight at best. The coaches were in the next room, the girls all had to sign in and no men were allowed within seventeen miles of their rooms. But, at fifteen and under tight control, she still hoped…

"This is you." They were in front of her hotel and he was about to head further up the street to crash at Bruce's penthouse. He saw the disappointment. "I'll make sure you get upstairs all right." In the lobby an older couple smiled at them indulgently as Svetlana held onto Robin's bicep. On the seventeenth floor he followed her to her room, made sure she could get the door opened. "I'll see you in the morning, okay? Sleep well." She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, the elevator couple laughing kindly at young love.

"Are we going to see an announcement in People?" The woman was smiling broadly by now, their room across the hall. Robin shook his head, laughing, not bothering to comment but knowing there was a fair chance there would be some mention in one of the gossip columns within the week. Ah well, he didn't care and 'Lana would probably get a kick out of it.

It didn't matter.

Just as he got to the penthouse, looking forward to a few hours sleep, his communicator went off. Bruce needed backup in Gotham as soon as he could get there. While he was watching the docks, he'd just heard a rumor that the drug cache Bruce'd been expecting might have been routed through the airport instead. Robin took the secret elevator down to the sub-basement housing the vehicles, grabbed his motorcycle and was there inside of fifteen minutes, just in time to see the plane roll into the darkened freight hanger. Robin knew what to do and seven men were no match for him, even if they were armed. He called in the GCPD for the clean up and rode the bike back to the Penthouse three hours after he'd gotten the call to cover Batman's back. It was almost four by the time he'd finished his report and slid into the guest room bed.

Okay, he was used to working sleep deprived, but tomorrow was going to be a long day. Oh well.

Ten in the morning and most of the athletes were back in the Garden warming up and making sure the elements in their routines were working that day. The dinner group from last night were all in good shape and 'Lana was beaming shyly whenever she caught another glimpse of Robin stretching or sticking another landing. The audience would be let in about one-thirty, the show was scheduled to start at two and the camera crews were working on their set up and checking the lights. Everything would be ready to go on time.

About one-thirty the men were in the locker room changing into their work clothes, chatting and generally relaxing until it was time to go out. There would be a group warm-up to tease the audience then the men and women would take turns throwing various routines. No judges, no scores and the formality of a real meet were thrown out the window; this was show off and have some fun time and, while they were at it, time to send whatever message they wanted to their competitors for the upcoming season.

"You have something planned, Robin?"

He gave Sergei an innocent smile. "Just to stick the routines, Serge, that's all."

Sergei smiled but didn't bother to pursue it just now. "My sister said you were a perfect gentleman last night and she was quite annoyed this morning."

He smiled, knowing she'd hoped for more. "I'll apologize to her later. C'mon, time to go." They started towards the door. Robin was wearing a pair of white stirrup competition pants over a standard sleeveless leotard, this one with a discrete 'USA' on his chest. His Robin mask was in place, silly as that may have looked but it was a condition for his appearing.

"You may want to make it up to her later, you know."

"Serge, your parents would hire the KGB to kill me and if they didn't her coaches would."

"Only if you also beat me on the high bar."

"Of course I'm going to beat you on the high bar—or I would if we were being scored." They knew they were being scored, unofficially, but the powers that be were watching with magnifying glasses, video cameras and would be studying the routines for months. Anyone who thought this was just for international friendship needed a class in reality.

The arena was darkened, the announcer was drawing out the excitement and melodrama; "Ladies and gentlemen, please help me in welcoming the finest gymnasts in the world!" One by one the young men and women came out as they were individually introduced then stood a moment in a spotlight, a quick wave as each moved into position to start the exhibition. Robin was introduced in the middle of the pack, at his request, trying to avoid stealing the attention, as he knew would happen. He was the hometown kid, the highest profile there and he was, well, he was Robin. He knew what would happen better than his friends did and he also knew he could wrap a crowd around his finger, just like he'd been doing since he was four years old. It wasn't even all that hard once you knew the tricks and he'd learned them before he could write his name. Sure, the others knew he'd be looked at and followed but the screams that erupted when his named was announced were deafening and Robin caught a couple of annoyed looks from a few of the gymnasts.

The main floor was fully lit by the time they were all in position. The athletes started a simple series of back flips across the floor mat, one after another, starting in two corners and passing in the center, one after another. The applause started as soon as they appeared and ratcheted up to mix with teenaged shrieks when Robin made his first pass, despite his surface efforts to just become one of the group. By the time the athletes had moved to warm up on the other apparatus, Robin and Sergei were using the two high bars to perform giant swings and stalters in counterpoint to one another the crowd was ready to take them both home for dinner. Sergei was good—very good, what with being world champion and all, but somehow the only one your eyes went to was Robin. It was hard to put your finger on just why. Maybe it was the way he played to the crowd, the look of flat out fun on his face or maybe just that he took every move as far as it was possible to go with it. Maybe it was his looks or how—even in this group, he stood out for his build. Whatever it was—or a combination of things, he was stealing the show from everyone on the floor before they'd really gotten started.

The afternoon moved on. The gymnasts were all in good form and all hit their routines and most of the landings were stuck to an appreciative audience. They were all in high spirits, supporting one another and there was a lot more laughing then you'd ever see in a real competition. Everyone was good, but when Robin came out for his first solo turn the shrieks became deafening until he'd stood on the platform with his finger to his lips and just started laughing—this was familiar territory for him and he knew just what to do with it. Robin stood there, hands on his hips and his laugher dying but the smile remaining as he used his hands and a shrug to indicate that he couldn't do anything until it was quiet. Finally you could hear a pin drop in the large space; Robin said a good natured 'thank you' to a ripple of laughter and applause and moved into position for his first routine; the parallel bars.

He grabbed a hold of one bar swung himself up and started with a short series of swings and handstands, releases and rolls. They were nicely done but nothing exceptional until he moved onto the release moves no one had seen performed before. He swung himself through the bars with enough speed to gain the height for a double tuck to a recatch followed by a series of new releases; full twisting layouts to catches, pikes that somehow went sideways over the bars and ended up turning into handstands and finally the big dismount; a triple tuck to a stick. Sure, people had seen triples before, but on the parallels? _No one_ did that. No one _could_ do that—they didn't have enough height, you couldn't get the speed, but Robin did it anyway. He straightened up in perfect form, a look on his face of 'oh, yeah!'

Robin smiled again, waved to the crowd, hopped down off the platform and sat back down next to Sergei. He stood for a few seconds to acknowledge the partial standing ovation then took a drink from his water bottle while Steve was left with the thankless job of following that.

Climbing up on the platform to throw a vault he was met with a wall of polite indifference and scattered applause as the crowd continued to follow Robin's every move, even though he was just sitting quietly in a folding chair on the sidelines. Seeing what was happening, he waited until Steve finished his turn then unobtrusively got up and went into the locker room—out of sight, out of mind and all. It seemed like a good idea, but all it succeeded in doing was make the audience wonder where he'd gone and when he'd be back. After fifteen minutes, the officials told him to not bother and to come out with his friends again.

The rotations continued with Robin's routines the high points of the afternoon. When he took his turn on the vault he managed the spring board flip onto the vaulting table to turn a triple layout Yurchenko with three twists, the first time anyone had managed that particular move and earned a standing ovation. And yes, he stuck the landing—it was a close thing, but pure will power kept his feet from taking a hop when they hit the mat.

"You said you were just throwing standard stuff—you call that standard stuff?" Some of the other gymnasts surrounded Rob when he returned to his seat, applause still sounding around them. He smiled and shrugged, sitting down, Sergei slapping his back, Svetlana

and a couple of the others crowding around with congratulations.

"No, you said you were just doing basic moves and now you're using this to introduce new moves. You're a pain in the ass, man—you're making us look like chumps." Steve was close to being seriously angry.

Before Robin could answer the senior American coach, Karl Weber, stepped in to diffuse the problem. "You can't stand the heat, Stevie, go play in another kitchen." He turned to the man of the moment as Steve and his group of friends moved off, muttering amongst themselves. "You have any other tricks up your sleeve I want to look out for today?"

Robin smiled; he knew when he had an ally. "You might want to hang around for the high bar and maybe the floor."

Weber nodded. "I'll do that. You live around here on the East Coast, right? My gym is just outside of Gotham; give me a call next week. We'll talk." He handed Robin his card and watched him slip it into his equipment bag.

"I'll try."

The cameras had caught the words between Robin and the small group who were irked at being upstaged, the announcer and analysts trying to get Robin or some of the others to comment. The best they were told they could hope for would be to wait till the routines were all thrown and the exhibition was over. If they were lucky the athletes would be willing to talk then, but forget it for now—they were concentrating on what they were doing and didn't want distractions. The sports reporters had no problem making an issue of jealousy and the fact that Robin—who wasn't known to have ever competed—was flipping circles around everyone else. Robbie was shaping up to be the story of the afternoon, hands down plus, with all the little girls hanging on his every breath and smile, he was the human-interest part of the story, the part that always sold well. The added fact he was the best looking thing on the floor didn't hurt, either…Beefcake always sold well.

The show continued, the crowd appreciative of just about all the gymnasts, but exploding whenever Robin stepped into position and not being disappointed. He delivered original moves; unbelievable difficulty and perfection of form in everything he did and made it look easy while playing the crowd like a violin. The small cadre of complainers continued their complaints but kept them quieter than before and Robin had no doubt that protests would be lodged as soon as the exhibition was over and that efforts would be made to have him permanently banned from setting foot in a gym. It was unlikely they would succeed, but bad feelings would be generated and no one needed that. On the other hand, as Speedy would say; "Sucks to be them."

Robin's turn came around again, this time for floor exercise and he took his position in the corner of the big mat. As the crowd quieted down to allow him to begin the music started; a recording of the old "Boy from New York City". First the crowd murmured, questioning since no music was allowed in men's floor and then started a ripple of laughter and applause as the song was recognized. He started with the usual tumbling pass, though one done with amplitude and verve rarely seen. As he reached the far corner, the crowd expecting him to stop for a moment as he gathered his balance and breath, he immediately continued with a punch front out of his last double twisting layout and simply kept going back in the direction he'd come from to the far corner then kept going for one more pass. He threw a triple pass of combinations with the highest level of difficulty. He continued the moves and stunts, barely pausing for breath unless he was in a balance stunt, moving in time to the music with not quite actual dance moves finally ending with a double, triple twisting layout as his dismount and a smile on his face. The young girls in the audience—and there are always young girls in the audience of a gymnastics event—tossed wrapped bouquets of flowers onto the mat and stuffed animals rained down until the floor looked like a warehouse for FAO Schwarz. Catching a couple in mid-toss as he left the platform and waving a thank you to the crowd, the stagehands came out with large garbage bags to collect the rest of the offerings.

The crowd loved it and he could see the group of gymnasts led by Steve complaining to the authorities again. He waved to the audience to acknowledge the ovation, ignoring the flack he knew would be headed his way and simply hopped off the platform to accept the congratulations of his friends and the adoring look from Svetlana. Yes, the cameras had also caught the obvious connection between Robin and the young Russian girl along with the clear friendship between Rob and her brother. The commentators wondered aloud what this was all about.

(Yes, I know double tumbling passes have been done before, but we're pretending that Robin was the first and it was revealed at this exhibition.)

Finally the afternoon was winding down—or building to a climax, depending on your perspective. The women moved to the unevens and the men waited their turns on the high bar.

Svetlana was far and away the top woman on the floor and seemed glued to the corner her brother and Robin had settled in, the commentators focusing almost as much attention there as they were on the routines being performed. Sergei leaned over towards him, an odd look on his face. "When is this going to be broadcast, do you know?"

Robin shrugged and glanced at the ESPN and the ABC Wide World of Sports cameras, calling to a sound man about ten feet away, asking him if he knew. "I think the ESPN guys are just doing a delay to this evening, but you might want to double check that. We're taping for later this month, I think."

Sergei looked worried.

"What?" Robin hadn't given any thought to any of this being a problem.

"Our coaches will want to know why we let you run away with this right under our noses and our parents will want to know why I let you get within fifteen meters of Lana." He was shaking his head; this wasn't going to be good when they got home. Suddenly Robin had a serious case of knowing that Batman would be furious he'd thrown advanced moves no one else could do, some of them going back to his circus days and thereby possibly jeopardizing his identity. Sure, he'd considered this when he'd agreed to the show, but it had seemed so remote and such a long shot he'd dismissed it as soon as it entered his mind. Well, okay, it _had_ entered his mind but he'd shoved it to the back burner and let it just fade away there because he just—well, he just really wanted to show off if you wanted to know the truth. He wanted to bust some moves, hear applause again, maybe get a standing O and know he was the best act on the bill again. Damn…stupid ego.

That was the real truth. He wanted to be center stage, just like he used to be, like his father used to tell him he was born to be. And there was going to be hell to pay when Bruce found out.

"Too late now to worry about it. Just one more routine then we hit the showers and dinner's on me." Robin sounded more confident than he felt knowing his ass was going to be in a sling about this. Big time and soon. He reached into his bag for his grips, putting them on, adjusting the fit.

"You have something planned for the high bar, don't you?" Of course Sergei knew he did, he was being sarcastic or something. "You're going to make us all look like school children again?"

"Only if I don't land on my butt. C'mon, spot me." In for a penny, in for a pound, right? The applause started as soon as the two of them stood up, continuing as they walked to the high bar and chalked up, a few of the gymnasts on the sidelines throwing glares and the evil eye. "Serge? Just stand back, okay? I'll be dismounting on this side, but I'll be getting some height and maybe some distance, so stand center and don't get hit." Sergei nodded, not knowing what was coming but knowing that Robin was saving the best for last.

He jumped straight up, grabbed the bar and began the kip that started the swings and the momentum so he could begin the real tricks. First he threw a couple stalters, a few grip changes and reverses then began the giant swings for his first release, a simple flyaway followed by two more in quick succession. On the next swing he paused for a moment in a handstand at the top of the swing, brought his legs down to a pike position on the top of the bar and sprang back up into a back flip above the bar. It was the same move Olga Korbut introduced back in the Munich Olympics but never done on a high bar. His speed pulling him through another giant to another series of aerials to more catches and reverses, every move executed in perfect form—no leg breaks, no knee breaks, no extra movements and more amplitude that should be legal. He began speeding up the giant swings for the dismount, faster and faster to build the momentum to throw him high enough into the air to allow him to make the four and a half turns in the air before landing on the mats. The same move he used to do from one trapeze into his father's catch. He never fell, he never bobbled and he never doubted for a second that his father would be there to catch him.

His timing perfect, Robin aimed up for the ceiling, went into the tight tuck, spinning as fast as he could and too fast for the individual turns to be seen without slow motion. The landing was right on, his knees slightly bent to absorb the impact of the landing, arms up, no hop, no step.

A quad, four and a half turns to a stuck landing. No one had ever turned more than a triple and even that was uncommon. As far as Robin knew, no one had ever seriously even tried to land the quad from the high bar and he'd just done it in front of a live audience and on camera. Illegal or not, it would have to be addressed, along with the other tricks he'd pulled this afternoon and maybe, with any luck, the sport would start to become a little less stiff, a little more creative and maybe even a little more fun.

The crowd was on its feet, cheering, flowers and stuffed animals landing on the platform as Robin stood there, smiling and so obviously happy and proud of himself. Sergei crossed the few feet between them, threw his arms around Robin and the two stood there a moment before the two of them took the hop down the athlete's waiting pit. Svetlana threw her arms around him; Steve glared and complained to his coach about the 'damn grandstanding—he belongs in a damn circus, for God's sake'.

"Problem, Steve?" Karl Weber was standing behind Steve. "I mean, I'd hate to think that you have a problem with the sport being advanced, with maybe have to learn some new tricks or something. That's not what's going on here, is it?" He gave Steve and his friends a scary smile. "Because if I thought that was what's going on here then I'd be disappointed and think that you're more concerned more about your own career than about the sport. I might even think that you boys might be a little jealous of s superior athlete and I hate that kind of shit." He paused, smiled again. "That's not what's going in, is it?"

Knowing they were outgunned and out maneuvered, the gymnasts shook their heads and turned back to their chairs on the sidelines, watching Karl go back over to Robin and his friends.

"Rob, I was just wondering; how old are you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Curious. You mind telling me?"

"I don't care. I'm sixteen."

Karl nodded, this was the oldest damn sixteen-year-old he'd ever met and that was saying a lot when you considered that he'd spent thirty years coaching world class athletes. He was as self-possessed as they came, more media savvy than any of them and better with a crowd than anyone he'd met. He could do a lot with this one—if the kid was interested. "Good. And call me."

"What did Karl want?" Sergei leaned in to ask so the others wouldn't hear.

"Nothing, he jut told the others to stick a sock in it." No point in telling Serge the man had basically just offered to be his coach since he wasn't going to compete. He might agree to some private sessions to work on form or something, but Robin knew that there weren't any Olympics in his future; he didn't have the time and his priorities were elsewhere. "The only thing left is the finale and the bows, right?"

"Dinner again tonight before everyone has to leave?" Maybe this time they could do Chinese. Sergei loved Chinese food.

"Sounds good, sure." That was when Robin happened to glance up to one of the skyboxes. Skybox number seven, in fact. He'd half been looking up during the day but the thing had been shut down and dark. Dammit—there would be hell to pay for this if Bruce found out—and he knew that sooner or later it would happen; he hadn't bothered to tell Bruce anything about the exhibition and had counted on his being stuck in Manila for at least another couple of days. The light in the skybox had been off all day but just now, just as he looked up he caught the light flick off out of the corner of his eye. It was the kind of thing that he might even have imagined—except he knew he hadn't. Someone was up there and he was busted. This wasn't good.

Robin knew he was supposed to keep his light under a bushel as far as doing anything that could in any way lead anyone to figure out his real identity and this qualified in spades—much as he'd tried to convince himself that it would be okay.

Oh man.

The gymnasts were called together to begin the finale, a loosely choreographed series of passes on the floor by about half the athletes while the other half threw tricks on the different pieces of apparatus. The idea was a sort of a three ring circus ending with each one bowing as they finished, leaving the platform then the whole group finally coming out for a group bow to a standing ovation and teenaged screams along with another shower of stuffed toys and flowers.

The stagehands picked up the tributes again, and put them in the big garbage bags—most of the audience not knowing they'd end up being donated to various local hospitals the next day. Robin and the others disappeared into the locker rooms to get cleaned up before heading out for their last dinner together and Robin tried his best to not let anyone know that he might be going home later to face the proverbial firing squad. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Finally, showered and in fresh clothes, the group of friends made their way out the stage door, taking the time to sign autographs for a while before begging off. It was getting dark and they were all hungry since they hadn't eaten before the show. The Lo Mein would taste good—if Rob could get it down.

Though a little subdued—which he excused by saying he was tired, he got through the dinner with no one the wiser about the fact that his stomach was rolling. He walked Svetlana back to her hotel again, kissed her goodnight without anyone watching and told her he might see her in Minsk next year if he could manage it. If not, well, they'd see each other again sooner or later.

Robin made his way to the parking garage of the penthouse, got his motorcycle and took off for the manor, not all that sure what he'd find there and torn between hoping it could wait till morning and wanting to get it over with.

Other than a few outside lights, the place was dark as he let him self in through the kitchen door connecting to the garage, and Rob slipped upstairs to his own room through the dark hallways without seeing anyone. He considered going down to the cave but figured Batman would probably be out, if he were back from overseas. Besides, Robin really was tired.

Maybe he had been mistaken, maybe Bruce was still in Asia and he'd just seen the cleaning crew or something. Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe.

The next morning, a school day, Dick was a little early for breakfast, nervous. He went down to the small dining room, his fingers mentally crossed and saw Bruce, dressed for the office, sitting in his usual place, sipping coffee, newspaper in front of him.

"Hi—how were the meetings?"

"Fine, thank you. Good morning." He took a bite of dry toast. "Read the sports section, I'd be interested in your explanation."

Cripes. Dick skimmed the section Bruce handed him, the exhibition given half a page on page four with Robin's performances getting the lion's share of the coverage. "So you were there."

"Just the last half hour or so. Would you care to tell me what I missed?"

Damn. "Bruce, I'm really sorry, but I thought I could maybe get the USGF to accept some new moves and some new ideas. I didn't think anyone would recognize me and…"

"You were very good."

"I was really careful not to let anyone know who I…what?"

"You were very good. Outstanding, in fact."

"…Thank you." Dick paused, a little taken aback. This was the last thing he'd expected. "You're not mad?"

"Should I be?"

"Um, I thought you'd…"

"Be worried about your identity? You were careful, weren't you?" Dick nodded. "Then no problem." He stood up, finishing his coffee then taking his suit jacket off the back of his chair and putting it on. "I have to get into the city. Have a good day in school, we have some new drug runners to deal with later." He left.

Seconds later Alfred came in with a loaded plate. "Alfred?"

"He's really quite proud of you, you know. You were all he spoke about last night. Now eat your breakfast before you're late." Alfred poured him a glass of orange juice then paused for a moment. "Do you miss it, Master Dick?"

"Miss what?"

"The crowds, performing, the applause. After all, you were born to live that life."

Dick though for a few seconds, rather than just give an easy answer. "Sometimes I miss it. I still miss my parents and some of the people, but being Robin helps. It helps a lot."

Alfred regarded him. "But you're happy here, living the life you have now?"

Dick smiled. "What I'm doing matters."

12/26/06

19


End file.
